


We Can Learn to Breathe Again

by katiewinchester



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiewinchester/pseuds/katiewinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain is out of the world cup. Iker blames himself. Sergio is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Learn to Breathe Again

**Author's Note:**

> I'm devastated. My best friend suggested I write... I'm not okay, but I'm starting to feel better. So thanks, Cait.

The bed is cold. His pillow is cold. And he feels cold. Like his fucking heart has chills. It is the feeling he gets every time they lose. Every time he knows he’d let them down. People can tell him all they want that things weren’t solely his fault, it was the entire team. Every one had performed poorly. And Iker knows that. He does. He recognizes that together they hadn’t been their best. But him. What about him? He could have done better, he knows. He was supposed to be a saint, and he’d let them down. He’d let his country down. And there isn’t any way to make it up to them. He is thirty-three. He isn’t getting any younger, and he knows it. He knows that this World Cup was probably, definitely, going to be his last. And how will he remember his last match ever for Spain? With tears. With cold pillows and a warm breeze coming from the open window. He’ll remember Sergio telling him not to cry, not to cry… But Iker _can’t_ not cry. He _can’t_ not feel. He can’t… He just… _Can’t_. 

He’s never felt so lost. He’s never felt so lost. He’s never—he can’t even think straight. He had been sure that Sergio left the room, but then he’s there again. Holding a glass of water. Iker reaches for it, and misses, God, how does he miss a fucking glass of water? The glass luckily doesn’t shatter— _thank you, hotel carpeting_ —it does, however, spill the water everywhere. There’s a puddle forming at the base of the bed.  
 Sergio looks up sadly at Iker as he tries to mop up the mess. The tears return instantly. How can he call himself a goal keeper, someone who’s job is literally to catch and hold things, and manage to drop a glass of water? It wasn’t like Sergio was throwing it to him from across the room. No. Sergio was standing right in front of him. He’s screwed up again. 

“I-I’m so sorry, Sese. I’m sorry. I know… I fucked up. I’m sorry. I—”

“Iker, don’t.” 

Cold turns to stillness. Iker holds his face in his hands and tries not to cry. He lets the tears fall silently down his cheeks. It’s over. It’s all over, he thinks. Everything is ruined now. How will anyone ever trust him as a keeper, as a captain, when he’s fucked up this badly. Will he ever start at Real Madrid again? Will anyone ever learn to trust him again? Can he ever recover from this?

“Don’t. Don’t blame yourself. I see it in your eyes. You’re thinking about the game, and you know it was _all_ our—”

“I know the entire team played badly. I know. But I’m the _captain_ , Sese. I should have done better. I should have led. I should have stopped those goals. I shouldn’t have fisted the ball straight back to—what was I thinking? How could I have been so stupid? Fuck.”

Sergio knows Iker well enough to know that he’s not going to be able to talk him out of this depression. Iker’s got to learn to forgive himself. All Sergio can do is let him know, repeatedly, that he isn’t to blame, that he forgives him, that they’ll move past this. 

And every time Sergio tries to encourage Iker, the keeper sinks further into his slump. He doesn’t see how Sergio could trust him so much. _Why does he think that I can come back from this?_ Iker thinks. _Why doesn’t he see that I’ve screwed everything up forever?_

This time Sergio hands Iker the glass of water, he grabs Iker’s hand and places the glass in it. He watches carefully as Iker takes a shaky sip, waiting just in case he drops it again. Defending him like he should have before. Sergio isn’t without fault, he knows. But he also knows that they’ll recover. And he knows that deep down, Iker knows this too. 

The water is cold. Like the pillows. Like the air. But not like his heart. Iker sips carefully, he’s too sad to think properly, still. But he’s got Sergio. And some how his tattooed friend’s presence has begun to make him feel, not better, but more at home. Sergio’s personality is sunny, like Spain; he’s warm and proud and… a good friend. And some how, Iker knows that if Sergio can forgive him, maybe the rest of the world can. Maybe he can forgive himself. The ice melts, and his heart beats regularly. His breathing is even again. 

“Did the water help?” Sergio asks. 

Iker nods. Sergio places the empty glass on the side table and sits down next to Iker. He doesn’t expect Iker to rest his head on his shoulder, but he welcomes it. The tears are still coming, less now though. 

“Please don’t blame yourself,” Sergio’s voice is a whisper in the quiet, still, cold room. 

A few minutes of silence later, Sergio looks down at Iker. His tear stained cheeks are a slight pink, and his lashes glisten with remnants of tears, but they’re closed, and Iker’s breathing is light. His mouth is set neutrally, his frown gone. 

Iker looks better when he’s sleeping, Sergio decides. Less stressed. Less guilty. Less self-deprecating. He leans backward against the pillows, bringing Iker with him, slowly, as not to wake him. Sergio closes his eyes and tries to sleep. His thoughts are still filled with disappointment and regret, but he tries to push them aside. 

He won’t lie to himself and say that he doesn’t feel sad and bitter like Iker does. He’s just less likely to show it. And for now, it’s okay. Maybe he’ll feel differently in the morning, maybe in a month, or in four years.

Sergio and Iker have shared a bed before. They’ve passed out drunk next to each other, and they’ve dropped from exhaustion, but they’ve never fallen asleep, naturally, so close to each other. He doesn’t mind, of course, and he doesn’t think Iker will either. And he definitely doesn’t mind when Iker curls into his side, like a child, vulnerable. He appreciates the closeness they’ve developed. He runs his thumb across Iker’s cheek, brushes some tears away; he leans in and kisses his friend’s forehead. 

Then he smiles sadly. _It’ll be okay_ , he thinks, he believes, he knows. _Everything will be okay._


End file.
